


His Words to Say

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:19:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And friends protect people. John remembered teaching Sherlock about that, too.</i><br/>---</p>
<p>It's always John's fault. Or, why he shook Sherlock's hand on the tarmac.</p>
<p>(With bonus Mycroft!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Words to Say

_Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day—if we're very, very lucky—he might even be a good one._

Lestrade's early words echoed in John's mind as the car carrying Mary and him rolled over the tarmac towards three people standing by a small plane. When the car had shown up in front of John's house earlier that day, he'd called up to Mary and walked out to meet it. He had gotten inside without a word. After weeks of silence from both Holmes brothers, despite phone calls and John's arrival on Mycroft's own door step, he had resigned himself to doing things their way. Hadn't he always?

_A good man,_ John thought as the silhouette of a tall figure in a long coat sharpened into focus. His stomach turned around the knots that had formed there when he and Sherlock had last parted, having been dragged into separate interrogation rooms following their arrest at Appledore. After everything, how had it all come to this?

John had often thought of the words Lestrade had said on that first night. They had been lucky, all of them who played a part in Sherlock's life. John himself had felt very lucky, and in the past year he'd also begun to feel not just a little proud. He was proud to be associated with the great consulting detective, and, secretly, prouder still that he had managed what others had not: to be his friend. And to teach the man how to be John's. 

Sherlock had always been a good man, John knew, but he'd been amazed at the changes that had taken place in Sherlock's actions and demeanor since his return. John had fancied himself responsible, though of course Sherlock only ever did exactly what it was he wanted to do. Somehow, though, it seemed as though he'd decided to learn to "do it right," to be a friend.

And friends protect people. John remembered teaching Sherlock about that, too. The knots in his stomach turned again as the car finally stopped and Mary opened her door to get out. John followed suit but kept his face turned away, moving towards the small assembly only as near as he could stand it. Whatever was going on, or whatever was about to happen, it wasn't going to be good and John knew that it was definitely all his fault.

When John heard Sherlock say something to Mycroft about this being the last conversation the two of them might ever have, he felt a heavy weight come crushing down on his chest. At the same time, though, the tiniest part of him was relieved. It was selfishly glad that he apparently would not be asked to bear witness to the aftermath of Sherlock Holmes's ruination. He didn't think he would ever forgive himself for all that had already come to pass, and God help him he didn't know if he was strong enough to be a friend to somebody trapped behind bars on his behalf. The termination of their association would be best for both of them, then.

As the others moved away and Sherlock and John were left on their own, John's mind went entirely blank. Everything felt slightly surreal, as though they had dropped out of time. He heard Sherlock say something about his name. William? How had he not already known this? Wait, what was that skull called? Billy? Had somebody once tried to call Sherlock "Billy", he wondered. His mind floated along in the bubble of this thought.

He became aware of a silence and snapped back to reality. "Yeah. Yeah. I can't think of a single thing to say," he stated. Thank you? I'm sorry? Go away. Forget me. You bastard, why did you throw your life away? Forgive me. (For choosing Mary. For ruining you.)

John listened as Sherlock swept through one last story and one last explanation, interjecting in just the right places as always. But the thrum of the conversation faltered as it never had in the past, and suddenly it sounded as though Sherlock was about to make some final declaration. 

Then, "Sherlock is a girl's name."

And John laughed. Sherlock was his friend even now, it seemed. In all their years together, John had never seen him joke with anyone else. A small burst of pride surged in John's heart when he caught the smile that passed over Sherlock's face in response to his own laughter. It died quickly, however, as the gravity of their situation reasserted itself.

Then, he felt they both knew it was time. Once again John was at a loss. When Sherlock extended his ungloved hand, all John could do was stare. This was it, then. A handshake, for all?

Well. If those were Sherlock's terms, what could he do but agree to them? He owed the man that. John took Sherlock's hand.

"To the best of times."

*

The door of the plane closed. John turned, to go back to Mary and the car, but found himself being approached by Mycroft. John met his gaze levelly and waited.

"You're right, you know," Mycroft intoned. "You are, in fact, the reason we're standing here today, Dr. Watson."

He paused. John dropped his eyes to the ground.

"And for that, I must thank you."

John wrenched his eyes back up to Mycroft's. Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then turned to look out over the airport runways.

"I always knew we'd lose him too soon. My attempts at protection could only delay the inevitable. On the whole, however, to lose him for an act he performed out of love is less... senseless... than a drugs conviction or a back-alley beating. Or even a poisoned pill from a serial killer."

John cleared his throat in the space that followed. He heard Mycroft but could not comprehend him.

"You were the making of my brother," Mycroft stated finally. "I wish you and your family all the best." He turned towards John and extended his hand.

Silently, John reached out for the handshake. He did not trust himself to speak. He had no words to say.


End file.
